


You May Be An Idiot (But You're Mine)

by cydonic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, distraction sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydonic/pseuds/cydonic
Summary: You don't know someone this long without knowing how to distract them.(in which Steve is an idiot, and Bucky tries to stay mad)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 22
Kudos: 230
Collections: Winter Gift Exchange 2019





	You May Be An Idiot (But You're Mine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WinterRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterRaven/gifts).



> This was written as part of the Winter Gift Exchange 2019 for WinterRaven/KittieWong. Thank you to SpecialHell for organising the exchange ([Twitter](https://twitter.com/HellWrites) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpecialHell)). Check out the rest of the collection for more amazing works!
> 
> This is my final fic for the exchange, but make sure you follow me here or on Twitter to stay up to date with what I'm doing! ([@_cydonic](https://twitter.com/_cydonic))
> 
> Enjoy!

The air surrounding them is a heavy mix of exhaustion and victory, and it is the tiredness more than any physical injury pulling their shoulders down as they drag their heavy feet back into the Quinjet.

Steve walks at Bucky’s side, the only one of them with a noticeable limp. Bucky is making a very concerted effort _not_ to look at the man next to him, lest he wind up injuring Steve more than he already is.

They board the jet slowly, people taking their usual places. There’s not a lot of conversation – not much cause for it. They won, but everyone processes that in their own way, and right now it’s still too recent to chat about their weekend plans.

Steve and Bucky are the last onboard, and Bucky turns on Steve like a sheepdog, herding him to a place where they might be afforded _some_ privacy.

“Get in,” Bucky grinds out in the sort of low voice typically reserved for parents threatening their children in public. To ensure there is no mistake made about his instruction, he pushes Steve’s shoulder towards the tiny, yet functional, bathroom the jet holds.

The room is barely big enough for one person to do what they need to in a bathroom, but Bucky crowds Steve up against the furthest, tiled wall. The door just closes behind them. Steve goes willingly, perhaps because he can see there’s no point in trying to fight it. Bucky’s sure his glare tells Steve what this conversation is going to be about, before he even opens his mouth the whole way.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Bucky hisses at last, voice low and venomous despite knowing that the walls are soundproof.

Steve, the absolute asshole, has the nerve to look amused. “What was what?”

“ _That_ ,” Bucky growls in response.

The room is small and, with the two of them taking up most of it, smells overwhelmingly of their mingled sweat and the scent of burnt spandex.

Steve’s hands, somehow, appear on Bucky’s hips – not a gentle grasp, but firm enough to be noticed, squeezing with promise. Bucky pushes them both down and takes a half-step back, the only distance he can create in the cramped bathroom. “You being a _fucking_ idiot, that’s what,” Bucky elaborates, since Steve _clearly_ doesn’t care. Now that he’s no longer pressed practically chest-to-chest with Steve, he can take in the damage – starting by peeling the shirt from his battered torso.

Bucky’s used to Steve Rogers. Has been for almost a hundred years. He knows what Steve is like. It never makes it any easier to watch, though, as the man he loves charges headfirst into battle. Steve has a goddamn _shield_ and he still throws himself bodily at the enemy.

There’s a gash on one shoulder that never got a chance to bleed, the heat of the weird robot laser guns cauterising the wound as it inflicted it. Bucky has to pull the melted fabric from Steve’s skin. He flinches, but remains steadfast in his quest to place his hands on Bucky’s body.

“We had to stop them,” Steve says, pausing partway through to hiss when Bucky uncovers a deep, purple bruise – the centre of it filled with small, bloody dots. Bucky doesn’t want to know what that’s from.

Bucky wants to dig the fingers of his prosthetic into the bruise, just to make Steve flinch again. _Idiot_. “You could’ve stopped them without letting them shoot you,” Bucky argues, tossing Steve’s ruined shirt to the floor and tracing his various wounds, taking stock with his fingers.

“You know where they didn’t shoot?” Steve asks, and Bucky glances up at his face to find a small smirk there that Bucky _knows_ means Steve isn’t taking him seriously at all.

Bucky just rolls his eyes and waits, because whether he gives a positive response or not, Steve’s still gonna tell him.

Steve’s hands – his relentless hands – return to Bucky’s hips, and with a pleased look he says, “my knees,” and then drops to them.

“You’re not off the hook,” Bucky says, and has to concentrate very hard on his scowl as Steve smiles prettily up at him from the floor. The absolute _asshole_.

Steve hums, and wastes no time in focusing his fingers on Bucky’s fly. “Tell me about it,” Steve says, and Bucky knows he doesn’t care but he’s gonna make _damn sure_ Steve Rogers hears how infuriating he is.

Bucky places a palm flat against the tiled wall above Steve’s head, which is all the better to loom over him with, even though Steve doesn’t look even the slightest bit phased. He’s quite focused on the task at hand, which is wrestling Bucky free of the tactical pants he’s wearing, but he’s determined _not_ to let that distract him.

“You charged in there with the shield on your _fucking_ back, for one,” Bucky begins, because there’s no place to start like the start. If it hadn’t been that he was trying to keep to stealth while Steve drew attention to himself, Bucky would’ve yelled at the idiot from his position. Instead he’d hissed Steve’s name down the comms line – his full name, thank you very much – and gotten a carefree glance, because Steve always knows where Bucky is and just how to piss him off.

“I pulled it off,” Steve says, and Bucky’s not sure whether he means the shield or the mission in general. The angry red burn on his shoulder says otherwise to both potential meanings.

Bucky huffs – or tries to, but then inhales sharply halfway through when Steve _actually_ slides a hand beneath the waistband of his underwear to brush against his cock. His cock which was, up until now, very much _un_ interested in the proceedings, because they were – again, up until now – just Steve getting chewed out the way he deserves. The image of Steve on his knees had taken a backseat to the image of some crazy genius asshole’s robots attacking Steve.

Now – it’s a bit confused.

“ _What_ are you doing?” Bucky tries to sound frustrated. He tries to push Steve’s hand away, but it’s weaselled its way in there and trying to remove it will just be more trouble than its worth.

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Thought you were mad at me,” he answers smartly, his warm hand coaxing Bucky to hardness and driving his brain to distraction.

“I _am_ mad at you,” Bucky growls back, putting renewed focus into what _exactly_ he’s mad about. Steve frees him, pulling his half-hard dick through the undone fly, not wasting time with removing Bucky’s pants entirely. “You didn’t even _think_ to wait for back-up.”

“I knew you were there,” Steve says, fluttering his eyelashes at Bucky and – _fuck_. “You’re always there for me, Buck.”

“That’s,” Bucky manages, momentarily distracted by the way Steve firmly holds the base of his cock, dipping his head forward to lick the underside from root to tip. His mind goes blank for a period of time long enough for Steve to smirk widely at him and jerk his fist a few times. “ _Steven_ ,” Bucky hisses, reaching the hand not planted on the wall down to pull Steve’s face back by his hair. “I’m mad at you.”

“I know you are, baby,” Steve says, placatingly, but his pupils are blown wide and his mouth hangs open a fraction.

Bucky forces himself to look away from Steve’s lips and over to the bruise covering a large chunk of his chest. “And another thing,” Bucky attempts, keeping his hand fisted in Steve’s hair – nevermind the way his hips lean in, the way Steve pulls forward in his hold.

Steve takes the head of Bucky’s cock into his mouth, tongue homing in on the area that always makes him lose his train of thought.

” _Another thing_ ,” Bucky repeats, steadying himself and refocusing his brain. Steve takes him a little deeper in his mouth and then hums, the absolute _shit_.

Then Bucky watches Steve’s other hand, the one not wrapped around the base of his cock. Steve’s undone and pushed his own pants down so they hang around his thighs, and he’s got himself in hand. Bucky stares as Steve twists his wrist around himself, then mirrors the movement on Bucky, pulling a surprised gasp from him. Steve’s thumb runs across the head of his own cock, collecting the precum that beads there – then his tongue does the same to Bucky before his mouth pulls away completely.

Despite himself, Bucky whines at the loss, and Steve laughs – deep and throaty. “Another thing?” He repeats Bucky’s words back to him, innocently, even though the space around his mouth is wet and pink.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Bucky settles upon, because that’s a very important thing he doesn’t think Steve’s _quite_ grasped yet.

“I’m not _fucking_ anything.”

Bucky decides to shut Steve up the only guaranteed way he knows how, using his grip on Steve’s hair to tilt his head _just right_ and then push up against his plush, ridiculous lips.

Steve makes a delighted sound around Bucky’s cock, bobbing his head with renewed enthusiasm.

Bucky loses himself to that for a moment, the way Steve takes him, sloppy and desperate. The anger that Bucky had felt – the anger fuelled entirely by fear, by the sheer _terror_ of losing Steve to his own stupidity – drains out of his body, replaced with the unbearable burn of love. He _wants_ Steve so much that the thought of not having him – like this, or any other way, tangled together in the bed or sitting slightly apart on the couch – is too difficult to even consider.

“Another thing,” Bucky returns to at last, words breathy and wrecked. Steve hums again around him, and it makes Bucky’s eyes flutter closed. “Never said you could touch yourself.”

Bucky should check that Steve’s listened to him, but he can’t force his eyes open. He’s thrusting off-rhythm into Steve’s mouth, and Steve takes it all with pleased moans that vibrate through Bucky’s entire being. His hand is sweaty and grasping Steve’s hair, the only thing tethering him to the world, his prosthetic unfeeling against the cold tile of the wall.

Funnily enough, Bucky doesn’t have to check on Steve. For all he’s a reckless idiot who can’t follow orders to save his life, he somehow finds it in his contrary self to take Bucky’s words to heart. One moment Steve is pulling Bucky apart with his mouth, hand keeping him steady, then there’s another hand – teasing his balls, squeezing tight enough to startle out a surprised whine from somewhere deep within his body.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky manages, the _e_ drawn out long and cut in half with a pleased cry.

There’s not a lot else he can say. He lets his body – lets Steve – take control. He just exists there, the pleasure so intense that everything else falls away. Steve’s there with him, breathing, despite all of his foolishness. They’re together, and that’s what matters.

His orgasm builds slowly enough that Bucky can enjoy it. It’s not the quick, post-mission fuck they’ve sometimes indulged in – frantic with the need to confirm that the other is alive. It’s not exactly making love, though, either, what with Steve on his knees in a bathroom barely large enough for the both of them, their friends and teammates just beyond the soundproofed walls.

It’s somewhere in the middle of those two extremes, and Bucky lets himself fall prey to the wave building inside him. It’s a little like drowning, the way his mind whites out completely as his body floats, arching unthinkingly towards Steve, the centre of his universe.

His orgasm reaches its peak and Bucky manages a choked cry, hips stuttering into Steve’s mouth like it’s the only thing that matters.

When Bucky’s thoughts coalesce into something sensible once more, he’s sagged against the tiled wall, Steve still on his knees beneath him.

“Stand up,” Bucky says, softly, and Steve obliges. “Why can’t you always be this good at doing what you’re told?” Bucky asks, reaching out with a thumb to clean the corner of Steve’s mouth.

Instead of answering immediately, Steve captures Bucky’s wrist and pulls his hand in closer, licking his thumb clean. “I’m sorry,” Steve replies, and his eyes don’t meet Bucky’s.

There are a lot of things Bucky knows about Steve Rogers, as a person. He knows that Steve is an idiot who will continue to throw himself headfirst into dangerous situations, and if that changed Steve just wouldn’t be Steve. Bucky _also_ knows that wrestling an apology from Steve is hard – namely because he doesn’t do something unless he’s sure it’s the right thing, and therefore rarely thinks apologies are necessary.

Bucky sighs, the last of the tension leaving his body. It’s over now, anyway.

“I know,” Bucky says, leaning into kiss Steve against the side of his mouth. With their bodies pressed flush together again, Steve’s erection presses insistently against the flat of Bucky’s stomach.

Well, he did get his apology.

Bucky shifts his hips back just far enough to fit his hand between them, encircling Steve at the base and squeezing tight. He feels Steve’s exhale against the side of his neck, the way it sends goosebumps up along his sweat-damp skin.

“You know,” Bucky hums, as if deep in thought, and Steve makes some kind of strangled noise – possibly a questioning one, but more likely one of pleasure, as Bucky slides his hand slowly up and down. “This is a bit dry.”

Steve clears his throat, before answering, “that so?” in a way that suggests he knows exactly what Bucky’s implying.

Bucky lifts his hand up and Steve catches it in his own, raising it to eye level. He considers it a moment, before turning Bucky’s wrist just so and kissing his thumb again. Then Bucky is left to watch as Steve draws each finger into his mouth in turn, laving each digit. It’s obscene, really, the way Steve lets his eyes flutter half-closed, his lips already swollen and shiny from his stint on the floor. If they had the time and space, Bucky would _really_ see what his mouth is capable of.

As it is, they barely have the time they’ve spent – which is already too long, as far as Bucky can tell. They’ve certainly been gone longer than any two people should be for a completely casual bathroom trip, which isn’t a thing one could feasibly argue should exist anyway.

Steve’s tongue finds the palm of his hand and licks up, sending a shiver down Bucky’s spine and straight to his reawakening cock.

“Much better,” he says hoarsely, dragging his hand – regretfully – away from Steve’s skilled, enthusiastic mouth. They can’t afford a round two. Not yet, at least.

Steve preens a little under the praise, those pink, puffy lips pulling into a tired smile even as Bucky grabs hold of him again. Bucky might claim the pace he sets off the bat, quick and dirty, is in the interest of leaving the bathroom and maintaining some modicum of dignity, when that’s a lie. He’s really searching for the moment when Steve loses himself to the feeling, when his eyes go all the way closed and his mouth opens in that lopsided, soundless cry.

The thing is, Bucky’s done this enough to know how to get the job quickly and effectively. He aims just below that, enough to make it worth Steve’s while, as if he wouldn’t be happy enough with Bucky’s hand on his dick in general. But drawing it out has its own special pleasure – Bucky keeps his focus on Steve as he adds his other hand to the mix, just thumbing over the slit and then the nerves at the underside of the head, mesmerised by the twitches in his expression. The eyes clenching, the mouth twitching; the small whine that’s a plea Steve can’t find the English equivalent for in his lust-addled brain.

Bucky takes mercy on Steve and finishes him off, trying to contain the mess to just Steve’s shirtless (and still injured, _stupid_ ) chest, and mostly succeeding.

They remain there, panting, Steve leaning against the wall – drained and loose-limbed.

At last, Bucky reluctantly pulls back. He looks Steve over – the healing wounds, bruises already turning from purple to yellow, and the cum splattered over the lower half of his torso.

“I guess I better get you cleaned up, then.”


End file.
